052

The training grounds of the port mafia were quiet this morning.

Fog hung low over the wide concrete yard, a thick blanket diffusing the early sunlight into dull, silver blue haze.

Steel pillars cast long shadows across the worn earth, cracked and scorched from years of countless battles.

The faint scent of gunpowder, blood, and smoke still lingered in the air-embedded into the very foundation like an old scar.

It was a place for breaking people down. And rebuilding them into weapons.

I stood in the middle of the ring, my coat flaring behind me in the wind, breathing steady.

Rashoumon writhed at my side, pulsing in anticipation.

Across from me-calm, unbothered, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets-stood L/N Y/N.

My senior. Dazai-san's mentor.

The infamous monster of the previous generation.

He didn't look like much. Slouched posture. Collar half unbuttoned. Barely awake. A lazy smile ghosted his lips, like he wasn't taking this seriously at all.

And yet-

No matter how many times I lashed out, no matter how precise, how lethal-I couldn't even touch him.

"Again."

I snarled, directing Rashoumon forward.

The shadows lunged, splitting into jagged, high speed spikes-too fast for even trained eyes to follow. But he didn't move.

He just leaned to the side.

Effortlessly.

The spikes pierced nothing but air. A soft whistle followed in the wake of the attack.

"You hesitate before every third strike," L/N-san said casually, voice mild, hands still buried in the pockets of his coat. "You're calculating, but too consciously. It's easy to read."

I gritted my teeth.

My feet pivoted against the cracked floor, cloak whipping as I turned Rashoumon into a flurry of slashes, aiming high, then low, then directly at his center.

He took a step back. Just one. A simple, unhurried step.

And every strike missed.

Tch.

He hadn't even activated his ability. I knew what it was-teleportation type ability.

There was no shimmer, no blur, no afterimage. Just raw footwork. Minimal effort. Complete control.

"Don't overthink it," he said. "If you think too hard, your ability trips over itself."

"Shut up," I snapped. "I'm not here for your advice."

"Ouch." He feigned a wince, placing a hand over his chest. "Your generation's so mean. No respect for the seniors."

I didn't respond. Instead, I lunged again. This time with all I had.

Rashoumon twisted into a jagged fang, barbed and lethal, arcing from the ground up like a cleaving wave.

A gust of wind roared across the ring.

L/N-san raised a single arm. Just one.

The sleeve of his shirt fluttered. The blade of Rashoumon stopped.

It didn't strike his skin. Didn't reach him at all.

The very air around him had shifted, curved, as if the world itself bent in his favor.

What the hell-

"Good." His voice was suddenly close.

I barely had time to react. He was already in front of me.

I jumped back instinctively, panting, cold sweat dripping down my jaw. My coat had been torn slightly. When-?

"You're fast," he murmured. "Faster than expected. But still too obvious. You broadcast your rage before you strike. A pity. That's where Dazai had the upper hand."

My blood boiled.

Don't compare me to him.

He must've sensed it. A low chuckle slipped from his throat, and he turned his back to me, deliberately vulnerable.

That was insulting.

I attacked again.

Harder. Faster. Until my muscles screamed and Rashoumon pulsed with strain.

Until the fog thickened around us, soaked with sweat and breath and the scent of heated metal.

And still-

Not a single hit landed.

He didn't even blink.

I collapsed to one knee eventually, gasping, trembling fingers pressing against the ground.

Rashoumon coiled loosely around me, weaker now. Exhausted.

I didn't look up. Couldn't.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Measured. Familiar.

Then-

"Is that all you can do?"

The voice was soft. Calm.

But the tone-

My breath caught.

That tone-

I knew that tone.

My eyes widened.

That chilling, quiet disappointment. That precise, careful sharpness.

My skin went cold. I didn't answer. I couldn't.

My heart beat too loud in my ears.

He sounded like him.

A long pause. Then-

A hand.

On my head.

I stiffened.

But it didn't strike.

It... patted.

Gently.

"You did decent," L/N-san said, voice now oddly warm. "I expect better next time."

.......

What?

My throat worked silently.

I should feel... relieved. Maybe even proud. That he acknowledged me.

But instead-

I felt... insulted.

I gritted my teeth.

He was soft. Too soft.

Was he mocking me?

Dazai-san never patted my head. Never said I did 'decent' or anything remotely similar. He beat the lesson into me until I could barely stand.

This-

This was pity.

"I don't need your approval," I muttered. "I don't want your kindness."

"I know," L/N-san replied simply. "But I'm giving it anyway."

"Why?"

He knelt beside me.

I still couldn't meet his gaze.

"Because I think you need it more than you admit."

Tch.

He was pathetic.

But somehow-

Somehow, his voice felt... familiar.

Like something I'd forgotten.

Or never had.

My fists clenched.

I didn't understand.

Why did I feel like I was being held and dissected at the same time?

Why did his warmth feel like a knife?

I didn't know.

I didn't want to know.

The interior of the restaurant was suffocating.

Gold trimmed walls, velvet drapes the color of fresh blood, and a glimmering chandelier overhead that looked expensive enough to fund a military campaign.

Everything gleamed like it had been dipped in lacquer-polished, decadent, reeking of extravagance.

Even the scent in the air was artificial, some sort of perfumed blend that irritated the back of my throat.

I had never stepped into a place like this. I never wanted to.

I didn't touch the food.

A full course French meal sat in front of me, hot and untouched, each dish so artfully plated it looked more like an exhibit than nourishment.

I didn't need food like this.

I didn't deserve it.

And even if I did-I couldn't eat while he sat across from me, that damned amused smile never leaving his face.

"What are we doing here?" I asked flatly, my voice sharper than intended.

He lounged across from me, legs crossed, coat draped loosely over his shoulders like it had been thrown there without thought.

His tie was undone, shirt collar gaping open, and his hair was ruffled like he'd just woken from a nap.

L/N Y/N. Port Mafia Executive. Dazai-san's mentor. The one they whispered about. Monster.

He didn't look like a monster.

He looked... tired.

"You need rest," he replied lightly, as though my question had been about the weather. "And what better medicine is there than luxury cuisine?"

I narrowed my eyes. "This is pointless."

He tilted his head. His eyes were half lidded, lazy, unreadable.

But I knew they were watching. Always watching. Every twitch of my fingers, every tension in my jaw.

"Is it? You asked for a rematch," he said, plucking a piece of foie gras off his plate with surgical grace. "You couldn't even breathe right yet. Your shoulders were tight, your stance uneven. Do you think I enjoy playing with broken toys?"

I bristled. "I'm not broken."

"Hm." He hummed, chewing slowly. "Then prove it. Eat."

My jaw locked. He knew. He knew I wouldn't disobey a direct order-not from an executive. Not from my superior.

But this wasn't an order, not exactly. It was a game.

I reached for the utensils.

The fork felt heavier than it should. The steak was cut so thin I barely had to chew. Rich. Tender.

I hated it.

"There. Was that so hard?" he said with a faint smile, swirling the wine in his glass.

I didn't answer.

I focused on eating, mechanically, one small bite at a time, my eyes fixed on the pristine white tablecloth.

I wasn't sure if I was hungrier than I thought or if I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of watching me starve myself out of pride.

He watched me for a while in silence. Then he spoke again, voice calm.

"How long have you been with the Mafia, Akutagawa?"

"Three years," I replied, not looking up.

"Still fresh," he mused. "And already Dazai's favorite. That must feel like a blessing. Or a curse."

I didn't respond.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his chin resting on one hand. "You're very loyal to him."

"He gave me purpose."

"Purpose is a dangerous thing," he said. "Especially when it comes from someone else's hand."

I glanced up, narrowing my eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just a thought," he said, taking another bite. "You fight like someone chasing approval. Not victory."

The fork in my hand tensed.

"You know nothing about me."

He smiled, slow. Pleased.

"Don't I?"

I hated the way he said it.

Like he did know. Like he could see right through me.

It reminded me of Dazai-san-but different.

Dazai-san's gaze was cold, indifferent, like I was a tool he kept around because it worked.

L/N-san's gaze was warm. Too warm. Like a fire that burned slowly until you forgot you were in pain.

"Why did you agree to train me?" I asked. "Dazai-san didn't ask you to."

"Because I was bored," he said simply. "And you're interesting."

My throat felt dry. 'Interesting,' he said.

"Is that all?"

He didn't answer. He just sipped his wine and smiled. I didn't like that smile. It was too soft. Too knowing.

I forced myself to eat more.

He continued to talk as we ate-or rather, as I forced down food and he picked at his own with elegant, distracted ease.

He asked about my training, about my past, about Rashoumon.

Never in a way that demanded answers, always like he was drawing lines between dots only he could see.

I answered stiffly. Cautiously.

He never pushed. That made it worse.

"Do you want power?" he asked at one point.

I frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

"A relevant one," he said, gazing into his glass. "You fight like someone who wants to be stronger than everyone else. But strength for what? Revenge? Recognition? Survival?"

"All of it," I said. "None of it. Does it matter?"

"It matters," he said softly. "If you don't know what you're fighting for, someone else will decide it for you."

I looked away. I didn't like how quiet his voice was. How gentle. Like he was trying to hand me something I didn't ask for.

"I'm not like you," I muttered. "I don't play games."

He smiled. "No, you don't. That's why you're fun."

I stood. The chair scraped back sharply against the polished floor.

"I'm done."

He didn't stop me. He didn't raise his voice. He just looked at me, still smiling faintly, his tone unchanging.

"I'll walk you back."

"I don't need an escort."

"I know," he said, rising smoothly. "But I want to."

......

I didn't understand him. I didn't want to.

And yet-

I didn't leave without him.